Juice Fasting: Enlightenment in a Bottle

          Ever since a friend told me that juice fasting changed his life, I’d vowed to try it myself. He was a walking advertisement: full of energy, always smiling, actually glowing from within. Normally I would shun the latest fad for fear of being dismissed as a flake. But now, I wanted in on the secret of his boundless joy.

          When I told my friends and family I was going on a juice fast, they were incredulous. They know the way I eat. I always clean my plate and never miss a meal. But then again, when I decide to do something, I do it—no matter who suffers. (Spoiler: I’m usually the one who suffers.)

          To do a serious juice fast justice, you’re supposed to buy an expensive top-of-the-line juicer, stock up on organic fruits and vegetables, educate yourself about the benefits of different juice combinations, and prepare your body for the shock by cutting out caffeine, meat and dairy for a few days beforehand. No matter. My corner bodega has a juicer and there are plenty of organic juice shops around—no need to sink $500 into a Vitamix or go for broke at an organic grocery. And I don’t eat that much meat or drink that much coffee anyway. I would start on a Monday and see how long I could hold out.

Day 1

          I wake up craving you-know-what. I’m not supposed to drink coffee, but I’m pretty sure I can have herbal tea. My friend said I should drink plenty of “detox tea” during my fast, to help flush the toxins out of my system. I start the day with a hot cup of rooibos chai, no sugar, no milk. So far, so good.

Breakfast, lunch and dinner

           Instead of going to my usual café for an everything bagel with lots of butter, I head to the neighborhood juice bar. Shall I have a Bunny Hop (carrot and orange), a Tune-Up (cucumber, celery, apple and ginger) or an Overhaul (spinach, kale, romaine, celery, cucumber, parsley, apple and lemon)? I go for the Tune-Up, even though the idea of celery juice makes me a little queasy.

          My potion is green and watery, with slimy froth sitting on the top. It costs $7. It tastes okay, I guess. I drink it and wait to feel something. I’m a little hungry, but otherwise, nada.

          At lunchtime I decide to go to yoga, figuring it will speed up the enlightenment process. I’m a little lightheaded, so I pop into a bodega and grab one of those Naked juices in the bottle. I’m not sure if that’s cheating, since it’s processed, but it’s green and the label says it has spinach and garlic in it. Close enough.

           By the time I pick up my daughter from school, I’m tired. It’s not even 4 o’clock but the sky looks dark. I don’t feel my usual self, but I’m not hungry, exactly. The world just seems a bleak and miserable place. Everything is gray, and the cold is seeping into my bones. “Your lips are blue,” my daughter informs me.

A lovingly prepared “meal”

          Dinnertime. I stop into Mr. Melon, the little neighborhood shop with a juice counter in the front. It’s not organic, and I know that’s a no-no. “If you don’t use organic fruits and vegetables in your juice, you might as well drink poison,” my friend had warned. I get a blend of beet, carrot, apple, pineapple and ginger. It’s just $4 compared to the $7 watery green muck I had for breakfast. The ginger tang masks the earthiness of the beet, and I suck it down fast. I wonder if the beets were washed, or if that dirt taste is normal.

          I make the kids grilled cheese sandwiches for dinner and throw their rejected crusts away instead of eating them like I usually do. Moving is a tremendous effort; even standing is draining. It’s dark outside and I can’t remember what I like to do in the evenings.

          I go to bed at 8pm.

Day 2

          I wake up feeling light and empty and virtuous. I did it! I made it a whole day without eating. Maybe I’ll never eat again. I study my face in the mirror, imagining my cheeks look a little hollower than they did yesterday.

          As I drink my morning tea, my daughter studies me, narrowing her eyes. “I feel sorry for you,” she says. “I couldn’t live without food.”

          “Get your shoes on!” I snap.

          I don’t go to the juice place for breakfast. I’m not hungry. Maybe I’ll just do a regular fast, I think. Not a juice fast. My grandfather once fasted for 30 days—just water. Who needs to eat?

          All day long, I feel angry. It’s too cold. I loathe winter. I don’t want to go to yoga. I don’t want to do anything. A friend texts to ask how I’m doing. “I hate this world and everyone in it,” I text back.

          I pick my daughter up from school and we head to the grocery store. I might not be eating anymore, but I still have to feed my children. She’s eating a bagel in the backseat as we drive to Fairway, and she offers me half. “I can’t eat that,” I remind her. “I’m fasting, remember?”

Temptation is waved in my face

           “Please, Mommy? Please eat it—it’s really good. You need to eat something. Come on, please?” She waves the bagel in my face. I can smell it. It’s loaded with cream cheese. I am seized with enlightenment. I know if I don’t eat this bagel, I’ll never eat again. My mouth is dry and my hands are shaking. I snatch the bagel out of my daughter’s hands and cram it into my mouth. Bliss.

          Color returns to the world and warmth floods my body. I can breathe again. We go into Fairway and I load up my cart. Clementines, broccoli, mozzarella, strawberries (in January!), yogurt, whole wheat bread, peanut butter, coffee: everything looks so delicious. I say yes to everything and spend $200.

          We go to dinner at Pequeña in Prospect Heights and I have a margarita, guacamole, fish tacos, and rice and beans with a giant dollop of sour cream. I am an eating machine. I devour it all. Across the table, my daughter is laughing. She’s so beautiful. I tear up, overwhelmed with love and gratitude for my family, my friends, my health, my life.

          I’ve never felt happier.

A real meal restores beauty to the world

Pequeña, 601 Vanderbilt Ave, Brooklyn, 718-230-5170